Another Side Of Midnight

Opening the front door to the agency, I gratefully stepped into the air-conditioning. The large reception area is decorated in “soothing but elegant tones of cobalt, maroon and cream.” Whatever. It gives clients a place to sit.

My secretary, Jon Chase, was typing furiously and staring at his computer screen. He’s about six feet tall with a lean build, sleepy brown eyes, thick hair and a great smile. In a word? Hot. In another word? Gay. This, of course, was a heartbreaking shame to every heterosexual woman who met him.

He looked up and raised one perfectly arched brow. Then he added a glance at his watch. “Whoa. Are you aware that it’s not even nine o’clock yet?”

“Just get me some coffee, will you.” I have to remind him on a regular basis who employs whom around here.

“Well, aren’t you just a delight this morning.” He handed me a stack of envelopes and some message slips. Then he did that tsking thing when I peeled off my sunglasses. “I hate to tell you, Steele, but black and blue is so not this season.”

Guess I needed more makeup. “Dad needed help at the restaurant last night.”

“And to think bartending doesn’t come with hazardous duty pay.”

“Were there any calls besides these?” I kept my gaze on the phone slips and made my voice as casual as possible.

“Two hang-ups on the machine and a woman who didn’t want to leave a message.”

The aborted calls shouldn’t have bothered me. But they did. “Has anybody stopped by?”

Jon looked at me, his expression curious. “Nobody outside the usual suspects—the mailman, that cute UPS guy. Why? Are you hoping for someone in particular?”

“Nobody outside the usual suspects.”

I trudged down the hallway, past the kitchen and bathroom, to my office. When we redecorated, I’d let Jon have his way with the paisley love seats, glass coffee tables, potted bamboo and Impressionist art out front, but my office was off limits.

Framed posters of exotic beaches hung between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The armchairs and couch were leather and my walnut partner’s desk takes up the far corner. I’d only agreed to the bright blue carpeting for the sake of Jon’s “visual continuity.”

My helmet and backpack landed on the couch with a dull thump. Pulling the window shades kept the bright daylight from drilling a hole into my brain. I visited each of the electrical outlets in the room, recharging the pieces of my portable office. Then I collapsed onto my suede desk chair. The best place for my head seemed to be in between my open palms.

But, I had work to do. I picked up the mail and sorted through it. Credit card applications went into the trash along with dating service invitations. My mother thinks I don’t know she secretly signs me up for that crap. I separated the bills from the few payment checks and thank-you notes then started a letter of my own.

The last time I was face-to-face with my oldest brother— five years almost to the day—I was only nineteen. Stupid, scared and selfish as only a nineteen-year-old can be. I’ve had to grow up since then. Vince still won’t see me or take my phone calls. I understand, and so respect his wishes.

If you keep picking at an old wound, it never heals. But I hate the idea of having no contact with him at all. I write once a week without fail and haven’t missed a week in all the time he’s been gone. It’s the very least I owe him. And, no matter what it costs, I’ve always kept my promises.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sombody’s Got to Do It

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Jon slid my favorite mug—the one that read I’m Only Here To Annoy You—across the desk.

“Coffee-coffee-coffee.” I took a sip and moaned out loud. “I made you espresso instead of latte. You look like you could use the extrastrength caffeine.” Tilting his head, he crossed his arms. “Soo, what’s the story with that eye?”

I swallowed another mouthful before answering him. “One of the customers didn’t take too kindly to her boyfriend gluing his eyes to my chest every time I delivered their drinks. When she said something, he took a poke at her. I swung on him. After that it got a little ugly.”

“Ugly is not the word for it.” Jon sighed dramatically. “With your looks, you could be a showgirl—”

“I tried that. Then they asked me to sing.”

“Or a model—”

“I thought about that, too. For maybe a minute.”

“But, no. You have to go around beating up drunks and spying through bedroom windows.”

“Lucky for you and your sense of job security, huh?”

He rested a hip on the edge of her desk. “Oh, please. You’ve been lucky to have me these past three months. How many people did you fire before I came to your rescue?”

“About a dozen,” I mumbled into my coffee mug. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’re the only secretary—”

“Administrative assistant.”

“Whatever. You’re the only one who didn’t complain about the part-time hours, the salary or the amount of work. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be typing something?”

He made an exaggerated snap with his fingers and stood up. “Thanks for the reminder. I have to finish writing chapter twelve.”

Scowling, I waved my hand at the files on my desk. “I meant something business-related.”

“Oh, right. Because we have so many cases right now. On the other hand, Savannah and Brick are at a critical turning point in their relationship.”

“The trials and tribulations of a Southern belle and her Yankee lover.” He smiled as I affected a drawl with practiced ease. I even managed the Georgia mountain dialect he tries so hard to repress. “How’s the book coming along?”

“They were undressed and fixin’ to fall into bed when you walked in. Let me tell you—”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” I stabbed my index finger in his direction. “I keep you out of my love life. You leave me out of yours.”

“Sweetcakes, you don’t have a love life.”

There’s nothing like the truth to end a conversation. And, besides, I hate it when he calls me “sweetcakes.” I scowled at Jon’s back as he swept out, then propped my boot heels on the desktop. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in over five years, not since Bobby died… I didn’t want to think about him.

And I hadn’t gotten laid in exactly two months, two weeks and four days. But I didn’t want to think about him, either.

Instead, I turned my attention to the files clogging my inbox. Private investigation is the business of information. Your client needs to know something and your job is to find the facts. People love the idea of Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, Thomas Magnum and Charlie’s Angels.

Reality is nowhere near that glamorous.

It’s hours of sheer boredom while you wait and watch and wait some more. It’s days of tedious fact checking and double-checking. And it’s paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. I

have a system for it, though you’d swear otherwise. It involves nearly illegible notes on yellow legal pads or scraps of paper shoved into my pockets.

When I’m ready to type up a report, I shuffle the paper around on my desk like an abstract collage until I make some sense of it. Conventional? No. Organized? Hell, no. But I’m not a linear thinker and it’s not pretty when I try to be.

After dropping my feet to the floor, I drained the last of my espresso and grabbed the first folder to draft a status report. Insert client’s name into document template. Briefly recap case. Inform of progress. Advise how to proceed. Save to hard drive. Repeat as necessary.

I’d reduced the stack by half when the intercom buzzed. Jon was on the phone, using his business voice. “A Mrs. Cavanaugh is here to see you.”

Who? I frowned and capped my fountain pen before flipping the page of my calendar. There weren’t any appointments scheduled this morning and I would have been happy to leave it that way. Then I glanced over at the pile of bills. Not enough to bury us, but enough to make me sigh.

Due to the steady increase of infidelity, bad parenting and civil litigation, there’s a greater than ever demand for private investigators. Just not this one. Jon says it’s because we need a Web site.

“Okay, Jon, give me a minute to get professional, then send her back.”

I rummaged through my backpack for a compact. Dab-bing pressed powder onto my eye didn’t help much. Screw it. I pulled my arms out of my T-shirt and turned it around so that the slogan was on the back. Then I yanked the spare navy blazer off the door hook and combed my fingers through my hair. Picking up my legal pad, I tried to project an air of expertise.

Because of my looks, most people think I only have enough brainpower to keep me breathing. While I have no qualms about using their assumptions against them on a case, it works against me when meeting new clients. But as my visitor walked in, I knew my appearance didn’t matter.

Her shoulder-length brown hair had expensive-looking gold highlights. She wore a lavender business suit and matching heels. Diamonds flashed at her ears, neck and wrists. She actually wasn’t much smarter than she looked, but I liked her anyway. Always had.

“Maria DiMarco.” I came from behind the desk to take her hand. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It’s Cavanaugh now. Mrs. Gray Cavanaugh.” Her breathy, childlike voice rushed from between pale pink lips, but her tone had an undercurrent. Something flickered in the back of her eyes. Then she smiled, looking like the girl I remembered, and indicated my shiner. “Still raising hell, huh, Steele?”

I grinned back at her and shrugged. “Somebody’s got to.” At St. John the Evangelist High School, Maria had been the princess of the popular crowd while I’d been in trouble more often than I’d stayed out of it. Our second year, I’d chosen peer tutoring over detention when the principal caught me smoking in the girls’ bathroom.

At first Maria and I had nothing in common except our Italian heritage and American History class. But over time we had become good friends. That lasted until I’d started at UNLV and we lost touch, as people do when they leave childhood behind.

“I didn’t realize your aunt wouldn’t be here when I called. I’m sorry, Steele. I know you two were close.”

Like that, I remembered the last time I’d seen Gloria. She’d needed a hospice, but she’d opted to stay home and go out on her own terms. We’d been sitting on the patio, toasting the sunset with twelve-year-old scotch and a twenty-five-year-old male nurse… That was Gloria. A bad girl to the end.

“Thanks. I miss her.”

Maria looked around, a slight frown pulling her brows together. “So…you’re doing this stuff now? I mean, do you think you’ll be able to help me?”

“I’ll do my best. Why don’t we sit down.”

Maria seemed nervous, in no rush to get started. She was twisting the rings on her left hand. I didn’t have to take a wild guess at the problem. This town provides plenty of work in the marital discord department.

I settled against the couch, wanting to put her at ease. “It’s been a long time. What have you been up to?”

“Daddy finally let me be part of the family business.” Her lips curved, but the feigned emotion didn’t get close to her eyes. “I put in a couple of days a week at the Palazzo Napoli. I’m the events planner for the hotel.”

“That’s great. How is Big Frank?”

“Good. He’s, uh, okay.” She dropped her gaze for a second. “How’s your family, Stella? I hear your brothers are working at Mezzanotte’s now.”

I shifted in my seat. “Just Rafe and his wife. You remember Laura Caporetto? She was a year ahead of us. Anyway, they help run the restaurant side. Joey’s still a cop. He’s doing good.”

Neither of us mentioned Vince.

“And your folks. Are they as cute as I remember them?”

“Yeah, they still can’t keep their hands off each other.”

Maria nodded and kept twisting the big-ass solitaire and matching band. With most investigations, you find out a lot more by shutting up than by asking a lot of questions. So, I nodded too and waited for her to tell me why she was here.

She sat and fiddled for another minute or so, then cleared her throat. “You know, my father didn’t want me to marry Gray the first time he asked. Daddy didn’t think he was good enough for me. Of course, nobody I chose ever was.” Maria gave a humorless laugh. “I really loved Gray, though.”

I leaned back against the couch, having picked up on that past tense verb, but not wanting to comment.

“The wedding was beautiful. We had a five-tier silver foil cake, a chamber orchestra and dinner with three hundred of our closest friends. Then we spent two weeks in Hawaii for our honeymoon. Daddy gave Gray a job managing the Palazzo’s casino. I thought we were happy….”

Listening to the slight catch in her voice, I watched her face. I had a pretty good idea what was coming. I didn’t have to wait long.

“I think…maybe…Gray’s been, um, unfaithful.”

Maria looked at me, her expression bewildered, gauging my reaction. I guess she expected me to be as shocked as she was. Nine times out of ten, if you think your man is cheating, he is. So I made a sympathetic humming noise and didn’t try to dismiss her fears.

“At first it was just a feeling, you know? He’s constantly on his cell phone and doesn’t say who he’s talking to. He started dressing differently.” Maria shifted her gaze and focused on the carpet. “For a while he was really affectionate, almost too much, but now he’s completely disinterested in… You know.”

I hummed again. “What made you decide to hire an investigator?”

“Well, Gray’s been going up to Reno on business. Daddy’s thinking of buying a place up there. I called the hotel one time.” Maria took a deep breath. “The front desk told me Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh had already checked out.”

I winced. I couldn’t help it. Guys can be so damned dumb. “Yeah. I guess I should have seen it coming, considering… But I guess the wife really is the last to know.”

Did I mention that I hate domestic cases? Despite the amount of business they’ve brought the agency. The first one I ever took without Gloria was a freaking disaster. I wasn’t too sure of myself so I kept in close contact with the client as I followed the husband. First he met his lover for lunch. Then he took her to look at rocks and I don’t mean the geological kind.

My client was pissed; the husband never took her to expensive restaurants or bought her jewelry. She showed up at the motel I’d followed them to. The client ran into the room, the girlfriend ran out and, to make a long, stupid story short, I got shot in the ass trying to break up the fight.

Since then, I set off metal detectors at the airport and I keep my mouth shut until after I write up my case files.

“What would you like me to do, Maria?”

Her eyes and voice hardened unexpectedly, erasing her vacant appearance. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“I’ll find out for you one way or another. But if Gray really is cheating, you’ve got to promise not to pull any of those movie-of-the-week theatrics, okay?” The look she gave me was totally uncomprehending. “No taking matters into your own hands.”

She agreed and asked me to get hard evidence for any future legal action. After jotting her contact information onto the standard contract, I had to decide how to handle the financials. Gloria had used a sliding scale that depended on how much she thought a potential client could afford. With the shades drawn, there was still enough light in my office to illuminate the facets of Maria’s diamond jewelry.

I named a figure that included my time, mileage, expenditures and front-row tickets to Cirque du Soleil at the MGM Grand.

She accepted the terms without blinking. “Whatever it takes, Stella.”

Damn. I should have added enough for dinner and drinks before the show. “Tell me about Gray.”

Maria’s lips curved and I could hear the wistfulness in her little girl voice. “The first time I saw him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Not handsome. Beautiful. Gray has incredibly expressive amber eyes and a face that should be on magazine covers.”

That was nice, but it wouldn’t help me pick him out of a crowd. “Maybe you could bring me a picture?”

“I should have a recent one.” She reached for her wallet and removed several pictures from one of the pockets.

As she sorted them, a rectangle fell onto the sofa between us. It was one of those four-pose strips you get from a photo booth. I had a quick glimpse of a much younger Maria kissing a guy with long blond hair. I noticed his Spirits Dancing concert T-shirt before she slipped the pictures back into her wallet.

“Here.” She handed me a snapshot taken on the gangway of a cruise ship. “This is from our vacation last year.”

I studied her husband’s image, trying to commit it to memory. He was tall with sandy hair and a goatee, a lean build and an angular face that I wouldn’t have called either handsome or beautiful. Gray Cavanaugh looked…slick. He was too attractive, too stylish, too everything.

I handed the picture back and went over to my desk. I rifled the bottom drawer for one of Gloria’s checklists. She’d called the one for domestic cases the Cheat Sheet. After grabbing a clipboard, I returned to the couch.

“Okay, so tell me. What kind of car does Gray drive?” Maria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I bought him a white Mercedes, but I don’t know the license number.”

“No problem. I can get that myself. Is there any property other than your main residence?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

Because if he kept an apartment, he didn’t have to pay for hotels. Out loud I said, “So I know where I’m most likely to find him.”

“Oh. Well, we’d talked about buying a vacation place but I didn’t get around to it.”

I made a note to do an asset search anyway and look for rental properties. “What about his work schedule?”

“He usually takes the noon-to-eight. But one of the other managers has been sick recently, so Gray’s working some graveyard shifts. I’m not sure of his schedule this week, but I’ll find out for you.”

“That would be great.” I scribbled more notes as she told me about his routine and habits. “Okay, tell me about any hobbies.”

She shifted, recrossing her legs. “Gray’s been spending a lot more time on his golf game lately. He plays eighteen holes on his days off. We’ve got several memberships. Aliante Golf Club, of course, but also Spanish Trail and Red Rock.”

Uh-huh. The Canyon Gate Country Club property, where the Cavanaughs lived, was home to a championship private course. I was back to thinking how much I hate domestic cases.

Then Maria pulled a thick envelope out of her purse. “This should cover the first week of your time.”

I ran a thumb over the bundle of fifty-dollar bills before shaking hands with my newest client.

It’s like Gloria always used to say—as long as there are sins and cynics, I’ll have a job.

CHAPTER FIVE

No Easy Answers

ONCE MARIA LEFT, I stripped off my blazer and turned my shirt back around. Then I walked out to the reception area and handed Jon the contract and a copy of Maria’s cash receipt. “Start a new file, please.”

He sets up manila folders with hard copies as well as entering data into the case management program. If I can look something up for myself, it leaves him more time to write his romance novel. Jon glanced at the receipt.

“She paid in advance?”

“That’s just the retainer.” I grinned as I handed him the envelope. “Drop this at the bank before you go to lunch.”

He rifled the thousand dollars the same way I had. Then he cocked his head to one side and wiggled his brows. “I’m taking ninety minutes for lunch. And I’m ordering the lobster salad from El Pescador.”

As many times as we’ve played it, neither of us seems to tire of this routine. “You’re taking an hour for lunch, pal. And you’re paying for your own lobster.”

“It’s only thirty minutes, Steele. You can unshackle me from my desk for that long.”

“Nope. We’ve got bills to send out.”

He gave me a sly look from under his dark lashes. “I’ll bring you back some Tandoori chicken from Shalimar.”

Ooh. He was playing hardball. Growing up in a restaurant made me pickier than most when it comes to quality, well-prepared food, and Shalimar was named best ethnic food in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. I relented on the ninety-minute lunch, just like he knew I would. Say what you will, but the man knows how to stay on my good side.

Alone again, I called up a blank document on my laptop and started typing up my impressions for the Gray Cavanaugh file.

Kept husband? Got his house, his car and his cash from the wife, got his job from the father-in-law. Maybe he married for love, maybe not. Probably cheating just to prove he’s a real man.

Follow-up for work and golf schedules. Check background (basics should be enough), credit statements (past three months) and cell phone bill (frequent numbers and times of calls).

A few minutes later, I got up and wandered into the kitchen. Yawning, I waited impatiently for the water to gurgle and blurp out of the ten-gallon jug and into my oversized plastic cup. I’m not trying to be trendy. Las Vegas is the fastest growing city in North America, which puts a lot of demand on the desert environment.

All the golf courses around here don’t help.

I do my part by only drinking the bottled stuff. It’s imported from some natural spring in Pennsylvania. I guess you’d say I’m a closet environmentalist, saving the world one cup at a time. Then again, I never remember to separate the trash on recycling day.

As I walked back toward my office, the hairs rose on the nape of my neck. The air seemed oddly still. I was no longer alone. Remembering this morning’s dream and the subsequent phone call, my heart hiccupped in my chest. There was a phone in my office. My nine-millimeter was stashed in my desk drawer. The emergency exit was through the storeroom. Which would be quicker?

My fight-or-flight instinct froze with indecision. Shit. All three choices were too slow and it was too late to hide my reaction. Nothing to do now but fight. Whipping around, I saw a hulking silhouette. His features were hidden by the glare through the front windows. I tensed as he came closer, bracing for whatever happened.

His presence was somehow primal, unnerving. And familiar. It ought to be, as often as I’d studied his digital photo.

I released the breath I’d been holding. Flinging out my left arm, I aimed the full cup of water at his face.

“Hey! It’s—”

I put everything I had into the punch that followed. When my right fist connected with his chin, I felt equal parts satisfaction and pain.

“It’s me, damn it!”

I bent over to grab my cup with a shaking hand as the adrenaline slowly filtered out of my system. “I knew who it was.”

It’s not like I could have forgotten him. A guy doesn’t walk into your life, turn it upside down and then disappear without leaving an impression. I thought I’d gotten past it. If not forgotten, at least moved on. I was wrong.

Okay, maybe it hadn’t been the first time I’d gone to bed with a guy and woken up by myself. But it had been the first time I’d cared.

After the nuclear meltdown that had been Bobby Mattingly, I hadn’t dated much. Two years passed before I accepted a dinner invitation. Another year before I had sex again. I’d slept with a couple of guys since but hadn’t let it get serious. Then I’d met Cameron and lightning struck.

So I figured I could be forgiven for expecting more than his morning-after note. S, You’re amazing. I’m sorry for this. Something’s come up and I have to leave immediately. I’ll call when I can. C. He hadn’t bothered to come up with an original kiss-off line. Obviously, I hadn’t been that amazing.

After wiping a hand over his face, Cameron raked back his wet hair. “I guess you’re surprised to see me, eh, love?”

I flinched. “Don’t call me that. I’d be more than happy to hit you again.”